


Saint Christopher Ain't Real No More

by Brosedshield



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Women, Campbells are assholes, Character Death, Character Study, Chris Argent is a rare bird, Crazy, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Hunters, POV Chris Argent, The Argent Family, True Love, Werewolf Turning, Werewolves, a SANE hunter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brosedshield/pseuds/Brosedshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Chris Argent met Victoria Campbell, he fell in love. Maybe because she was beautiful, badass, brave, vicious. Maybe because she felt like family (like that same old madness).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint Christopher Ain't Real No More

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted an Argent/Campbell crossover fic pretty much since watching Teen Wolf. Here it is! (if you know of more, please let me know!)
> 
> Also, Chris Argent is that strangest of creatures, a SANE hunter, and I LOVE him.
> 
> Spoilers through Teen Wolf S2 "Party Guessed". And also the SPN Pilot.

Christopher Argent was not named after the patron saint of travelers, but he may as well have been. His childhood and adolescence were a series of homes, a series of moves, different schools, different climates and monsters.

He hadn’t always known about the monsters, the werewolves and other things that go bump in the night, but he found out in high school. He could still remember the werewolf, howling, slavering, throwing itself against its bonds while his father and sister stood casually before its bleeding form, blades and electric triggers in their hands, looking up in mild surprise at his entrance.

“Dad, Kate, what’s…?” And then he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. 

“Come away, Chris,” she’d said, her eyes cold and kind at the same time, locked on his father as though they could carry on entire conversations by a mere glance. They were often not _happy_ conversations. “Your—Gerard and Kate are busy right now, and you don’t have to see this.” Her hand on his shoulder was gentle, but implacable.

That was the first time he’d turned away from the madness of his family, though he would never have thought of it that way. Not even when his mother disappeared his second year in technical school, a few years after Beacon Hills, a few years after he himself had walked away from Gerard and Kate to build a career that would provide a decent cover for the hunting. Gerard told him his mother left him, had the divorce papers to prove it. Chris never completely disbelieved him, because he could, looking down at the viciously precise scrawl of her signature, remember all those silent conversations.

“Will she come back, do you think?” he asked.

Gerard shook his head and looked away. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied. If he was worried that he was a man alone, without a woman to lead him, he expressed no concern.

Off and on, for the rest of his life, Chris wondered about her, where she had gone, if it had been something a little…closer that had taken her away. He was a loyal soldier, a man who believed what he was told when it made enough sense, but he had never been stupid enough to miss the crazy that surrounded him.

The first time he met Victoria Campbell he’d answered a general call to take down a vamp nest, and there she was, a muscled redhead, movements sharp as the blade (covered in dead man’s blood) she used to paralyze the vamps before kicking them toward a Campbell with an ax for the final beheading.

He fell in love that night, though he wouldn’t have told her that. She wouldn’t have appreciated the romanticism, not his jagged-edged warrior, his brutally competent beloved. Campbells weren’t quite as team-oriented as Argents, they had a different system, a different code, and she would have rather ripped his balls off than allowed him to believe for one second that she, a woman, was weaker, or less able to match the supernatural threat.

And because he didn’t believe that for a second, in all ways considered Victoria his equal or superior, he thinks that’s why she eventually consented to marry him.

She was his help-meet, or maybe he was hers. They built a family together, raised a daughter who was the second light of his life, and he had always believed there was no darkness that could stand against them together.

He wonders sometimes now, as he stands over her grave, if when he first saw her, he recognized his family in her. Not that he would have been attracted to a woman exactly like his sadistic Kate, or viciously manipulative like his father, but there was little denying that a thread of crazy, a thread of hate ran through his family. It was usually directed toward those beasts that threatened all of humankind, but sometimes was just frankly crazy. _They looked into the darkness, and grew teeth in defense,_ as his mother whispered to him some nights when he asked why Kate had smiled while she cut into the werewolf’s skin, or his father had said every damn moonfollower should all die when only one or two had been doing harm. And his beautiful Victoria, his Campbell wife who told him stories sometimes about her relatives who hunted things, saved people if they could. She sneered at her mad cousin Mary who ran away with a civilian and burned to death on a ceiling, dead by a demon’s hand in a damn nursery, the freak that killed her vanished without a trace.

“I wouldn’t die that way,” she had said, “defenseless before a freak. I’d go down swinging.”

And she did, in the end. She did.

He saw family in her. He recognized her as his home.

And now, looking down at her grave, his arm wrapped around his daughter’s shoulders (the daughter in love with a “freak,” and wasn’t that worse in Victoria’s eyes than _civilian_?) he wonders what home he will find now, to whom he belongs, with nothing solid in his world but the no-longer-little girl beside him, head bowed by grief.

Chris Argent is traveling again, lost, without even leaving Beacon Hills.


End file.
